


Incandescent

by borlaaq



Series: This Slow Devour [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Judgement!Candles, Other, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borlaaq/pseuds/borlaaq
Summary: Candles laughs and the Neath isn't as cold when you stand next to it. "Don't get soft on me, Veils. We need someone to remind us of how horrible it is down here or we'll never leave."
Relationships: Mr Veils & Mr Hearts & Mr Candles, Mr Veils/Mr Candles
Series: This Slow Devour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697740
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Incandescent

_ We’ll never reach it all, the ending scene. _

_ Another pain inside my chest without your heat. _

—

Maybe you're heartless but Candles is naive. It believes so strongly in the good of the Bazaar, of humans, of even the Suns. It doesn't see this as a damnation, but rather a way to prove something. (What, you aren't sure.)

The first time you hit it hard enough to draw blood is when it's fighting your grip as you tug on it on Axile. It's trying to reach more survivors to move them onto the Bazaar, save more than there is room for. The pulse of a Judgement in the distance. You don't have time. You will all die if you wait. 

"Don't be a fool!" You hiss. It's adding more sins to the crimes you and this lot have already been charged with. None of you need anymore. This is a sentence for all of you, not a game, not time to play hero. 

"Just a few more. I have to save as many as I can." It's working light and Amber into Shapeling Arts, giving form to the least of the Flukes. 

You slap it. There is no time. You must go or the mission will be doomed before it even began. You refuse to die before your sentence has even started. 

Your claws drip with gold. You freeze. Candles stares at it too, a hand brought up to its own face as if it's surprised the blood is its own. 

Neither of you mention it but it lets you pull it to the back of the Bazaar. The Stone Pigs rumble as Axile is devoured in the light of an angry Judgement. Axile had been meant to be doomed, the Flukes fodder. And yet, here they are, with you and other outcasts.

And what does that make Candles, glowing bright and warm, shaping Flesh in a way you never knew a Curator could? And it's blood, golden like the sun.

You don't want answers. You want this to be done and over with. You already miss the sky. 

Later, when Candles is strangely silent, you say, "You will doom us all with your behavior. What were you thinking? Going against the Chain?"

Candles laughs. "Don't all Runts go against the Chain in the end?"

You never forget the bitterness in its tone or the way it smiles like it never said it. 

—

You aren't sure why Candles goes out of its way to make everyone comfortable. You aren't sure why it cares. No one else gives it the same effort. Especially not you. 

Yet, Candles works itself nearly to exhaustion for humans and Curators alike. It makes sure Wines and Apples have everything they need. It teaches Spices about what do with the honey-mazed. It brings Cups things (things you would call junk) it thinks it might like. It wants everyone to be _happy_. It makes custom candles for each Master and each human. 

It makes you sick, really. This is a prison. None of you should be comfortable there. This is the price paid for your sins. 

You remember when you first complained about how your wings ached, Candles had offered you some honey. You shoved it away with a growl.

It didn't stop trying.

You had never been to Parabola before but Candles says it will go with you. After it annoyed you enough you finally give in.

It lays next you, passes a bottle. "Just one drop. It's strong. Then, just sleep. I'll guide you." 

Curators don't often dream and Honey-Dreams are different entirely. You never dared before. Parabola is a forbidden place in the High Wilderness. But Candles is at ease. It hums a song as you drift off. You can't help but wonder how it learned how to control dreams as it does. 

You think yourself awake when you open your eyes. But it smells sweet and it's bright. You blink, breathing hitching. Candles holds out a hand to help you stand. You are glad you take it because you still stumble, eyes wide as you take in the verdant forest around you. 

"You can spread your wings here." Candles says, shrugging off its robe. It lets itself expand, wings reaching towards the sky. It shimmers like ice.

There you drop all semblance of humanity and you _fly_. Unfurl, unfold, you haven't been able to grow this big in years. The sunlight of Parabola melts to the stars in your pelt, turning them gold. It's like there's a real Judgement here, knowing exactly how to meld and reflect just like during the Hour of the Hunt. 

(In the Neath, there is no Law so your stars shine pale and dead, flicker only with your own heartbeat. You never thought you would miss the Order of Days. Perhaps that is the punishment for breaking it so.) 

Here, though, in the Is-Not, your stars pulse with the sun. And you hunt and you laugh. For the first time in what feels like forever.

Candles flies with you, until it gets tired and lands. It still watches you, though, legs kicking off the edge of one of the mountains that hang from the sky. You are weaving through trees and the sun is so bright and warm that you start to sing. It's a song to the Judgements, a thanksgiving for their light and heat. 

And when you turn, you notice the sunlight of Parabola radiates directly from Candles. Your stars beat with its heart, not your own.

Maybe you fall in love with its light. The Law is not here, yet it's all around you. A Law that Isn't and Is.

"The Devils used this place to escape the Judgements," says Candles.

You wonder, then, if it helped them just like the Flukes. You don't ask. 

—

_ Things like “hope” were all you’d tell me about. _

_ Now I see you had your head in the clouds. _

—

Candles likes to talk about the future. It is bursting at the seams with foolish notions like hope and honor. It sighs at the idea of love being possible even down here, that love alone can change a Judgement’s mind — that love could break the Chain. You tune out its voice most days, when the two of you are in Candles’ room and its melding wax or amber and you’re sewing. 

Candles has always been warm. Warm like its name, warm like its smile, warm like a distant star. You hated it at first. You hated everything at first, but Candles made you remember the hunt and the song and the Suns. 

Candles burns hot, though, always. Too hot, too fast, too much. It would burn itself out this way. A white-hot star destined to ash. But that is neither here or now because because —

— Candles is singing now. To you. For you. It sings in longing for the sky. It doesn’t long as much or as hard as you but it sings because it knows you do. It’s an old song, one used on the rare times curators would get together. You don’t understand why it is doing this for you. You are a criminal and a sinner and it has golden blood. You don’t understand. No one else would say such things to you, no, if anything, everyone else tends to curse your name. You have a long list for crimes and a longer list of reasons you are not well liked. And that’s fine.

Its words are pretty and they shouldn’t be for you.

“Candles.” you growl, claws nearly slipping on a stitch. 

“Hm?” It glances at you, wax caught under its claws as it carves shapes.

“Stop.”

Its ears droop a bit but starts to hum instead. You sigh, and you feel bad, so you hum along.

Perhaps it spent so much time daydreaming with its head in the clouds because that is where it belonged. Perhaps Candles belonged to the sky more than you did. No, no. The _sky_ belongs to _Candles_ and here it is, offering it up to you once this is all over. You can’t stand it. Doesn’t it realize that it could make everyone bow? Doesn’t it realize it doesn’t have to be _here_?

(You can’t help but think that if it ascended the Chain, took its place where it should be, instead of down here with the likes of you, you would love to serve it. You would protect it and guard it like it was worth more than any piece of cloth in your horde.) 

Sometimes it tells you, “You should teach me how to hunt when we’re home.”

You can’t stand how nice you think that would be. 

—

You learn that Candles hates wastefulness. It reuses every drop of wax in its work to the point of near obsession when it takes a knife to the wax dripped onto the floor or table. It's worse with its Shapeling Arts.

"Everything has a use," it says.

(Earlier Apples had said, "Good thing we're down here. Runts couldn't last up in the sky. They're missing things, you know? Can't reuse genetic material to reproduce, no, no. It's sad, really, my dears, to be missing such a thing.")

"You're not useless." You had not meant to say it aloud.

Candles laughs and the Neath isn't as cold when you stand next to it. "Don't get soft on me, Veils. We need someone to remind us of how horrible it is down here or we'll never leave." 

Weeks later, when the topic of the Second City comes up again, about how it is stagnating, about how a Third must fall soon, Candles stands up and leaves. Wines comes up to you, a hand on your shoulder. Does it think you will follow after Candles?

“Don’t you want to see the sky again?”

“What kind of pointless question is that?” You growl. Of course you do.

But you never wanted Candles to know how much you missed the sky. How Candles couldn't help you no matter how much it tries. (How if, given the choice, you would choose your freedom over Candles. You don’t think about that.) 

Candles isn’t here, right now. You are cornered by Wines and its cold light. Not warm like Candles. You could bask in Candles’ light and remember, but Wines… Wines’ light doesn’t offer the same condolences. 

“Ah,” you breathe, realizing. “You have found a Third.”

Wines smiles, almost sadly. “We would be honored if you would join us for the negotiations.” 

—

_ So even if I’m turning over days I hate,  _

_ And even if I curse a fate I just can’t change, _

_They hang, the words in the air again._  


—

Your wings ache and your mind reels at the scent of blood. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this. You close your eyes and you see the High Wilderness. You feel anxious and trapped. Candles tries, it really does, and that’s the worst part. 

It shows you its own little piece of Parabola, an island where the smell of the sea is strong. The grass is green and soft. The stars, real ones, are all above and below you. It’s close, you think, as close as Candles can give you. 

You circle the lighthouse over and over and your wings never feel tired. The air is too heavy, too warm. It’s not the High Wilderness.

“I think I may put something in the center,” it chirps, meeting your wings beat for beat. (It flies noisily. It took you a long time to learn how to fly silent in these different skies.) You look to the empty space of the isle, watch the grass roll under the wind that's not there.

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. A wishing well, perhaps?”

You can’t keep doing this. You wake up. Your window is open, wind cold as it blows in and rustles the fabric drawn around your bed. You blow out the candle next to your bed that smells like ozone. 

Candles shifts besides you, sits up, and rubs its eyes. “Are you alright?” 

“Of course.” You lie so easily to it. One turned to two and now it’s too easy. 

—

_I’ll never win, I’ll never save you, they said._  


—

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Apples puts a hand to your leg and you jerk away. 

"Yes," you snarl, "This City is damned. Let another fall already. Then we are almost halfway through this."

"That's not what I meant. You trust Wines?"

You pause, wings tensing. "No," you admit, voice low, eyes avoiding looking at Apples. "But what choice do we have?"

Apples glances out from across the market. The tree above you casts strange dancing shadows. You follow its gaze to see Candles shaking hands with a human. It's holding a golden necklace, the woman is cradling an elegant candle. 

"They said– Wines said they would only need a little." 

"And you don't trust Wines."

"I don't trust _humans_." You correct.

There's a pause and Apples is looking at you. You feel its gaze. You are still staring at Candles, reading its lips as it thanks the human woman for the trade, as it slips the pendant around its neck.

"You love it," Apples says quietly. You ball your fists tight enough that the smell of your own blood stings your nose. Apples continues, "So, I ask again, are you sure?" 

"Yes. I am sure." You stand up. Your wings ache.

"Well." It pats dust from its robes. "Perhaps tell it, hm?" An incline of its head as Candles approaches. 

"Veils! Apples! Sorry to keep you waiting. I got my shop closed up. Are we still getting dinner?" Its hood is threatening to fall off and you huff, reaching forward to tug it back on. 

"Veils here got a nice new treat for us to try," Apples coos and the way Candles looks at you makes you feel warm. You are sure the stars on your face are flaring up.

"As long as it's not human this time. I had a long talk to the Vake about hunting." Candles hums teasingly. 

"Plated Seal," you smirk, proud of yourself. 

—

"They want the flesh of a god." Wines says it so simply and you stare past it. 

"So why not you?" You growl, claws digging into the table. 

"The Bazaar trusts me."

"Does it not trust Candles?"

"It doesn't trust _you_. Where are your alliances at, Veils?" 

Wines knows better than anyone that your alliances are not with it. They are on whatever makes this go the fastest. You guess that places you against Candles too. You realize what Wines is getting at. 

Wines sees your hesitation, goes in for the kill. “Make this as painless as possible for it, won’t you?”

You bare your teeth but then you deflate. 

That’s why it has to be you, only you, always you, to give it away. You don’t trust anyone else to betray it correctly. Betrayal from a friend is more intimate. Candles deserves all you can give it and what you can give it is this. 

—

_ I should’ve shared everything, but never did. _

_ And only now can I see how much I hid. _

_ So I’ll keep moving ahead, I have to try. _

_ But even now, you’re all that fills my mind. _

—

You realize much too late just how much you hid from Candles. There is so much left unsaid. 

Everyone is tense in the Second City. Curators are solitary creatures and having so many locked in the Neath is punishment enough without the Neath being cold and lightless. Masters of other Couriers never have to deal with it to this extent, you think. You guess that’s what you all deserve, being what you all are — exiles, criminals, no better than the damned. The starvation and stagnation of the Second City makes it unbearable.

You can barely look at Candles, now days. The deal is nearly ready to be struck and that only makes you stay out later. You vaguely wonder if you should instead spend more time with Candles but then you push that thought from your mind. And you hunt. And you fly. And you don’t worry. This is what has to be done and even Candles agrees. 

The taste of blood eases your shaking, your aching. You don’t tell Candles and lying to it has long become a habit. 

So when it asks, “You’ll stay with me the whole time right?”

You answer without missing a beat, “Of course.”

Candles knows the price the Bazaar put on its head. You know it had heard the whispers and you know then, staring at it, that it still believed in the good in people. It still believes that the God-Eaters will keep their promise of ‘only a little’. And the look on its face, in its eyes, tells you that it believes, if not, you will sew it back together.

Perhaps you believe that too. 

When you walk Candles up to the Temple, it reaches out for you one last time. It's dizzy and drugged. You don’t reach back. Not until you see the glint in the Priests’ eyes, not until you realize humans are capable of horrible things. Only then do you reach out to try and grab Candles. And by then it’s too late.

It’s not that you regret. You did what you had to. But not even a Runt deserves that. Maybe you have grown soft for Candles. Maybe you love Candles. 

No. You love Light. As you were made to. As everything on the Chain is made to.

After, when one of the Priests returns covered in golden blood and licking their lips, they hand you a bundle of ripped cloth and bones. (A red ribbon, torn lace. You had made those robes for it yourself.) You close your eyes, clutch the fur and bone, and turn away. 

The Priest calls out, “You’ve tasted it too. The blood of a God. Are you no better than us?”

Perhaps you aren’t. But the Third City falls. 

—

When something needs to be gotten rid of, it's thrown in a well. Especially in the High Wilderness. Anything too power, too useful, too _personal_ to kill outright is tossed into a well. And you have always been a traditionalist.

You never knew bones could sob or scream. You're shaking by the time you make it to a well. It's not a black hole like in the High Wilderness but Candles deserves this much. Wines brings the Lacre. 

"Will it stop the noise?" You plead as Wines fills the well with Lacre. Put it to sleep. Let it rest. Let it _die._

"What noise, dear?" Asks Wines, looking confused, worried. 

—

_ I didn’t wanna know, I didn’t wanna see, _

_ The color of memory I’ll never reach. _

—

You still remember how the irrigo tasted in the days after. You all do. Claws stained violet as you all worked it into your daily lives: a special wine, a special dye, a special incense. Meats seasons, essays written, fragile pottery crafted. You all had your own ways, and it was all violet hued. You all forgot. It should have been enough.

But Candles had always been one with dreams. 

—

“You’re pouring the wax too slowly,” you tell Fires. It stares at you. The wax hardens. You realize what you said. “I… am not sure why I know that.”

“Gas lamps are more effective,” Fires replies at length, grunting. Yet, it tries again. Even with the fastest of hands, the wax hardens faster than it should. 

—

_ You’re spitting pretty words as if a game to play  _

_ But all they do is curse my name  _

_ So keep them to yourself okay? _

—

The Vake attacks pick up after the Second City. The other Masters know you hunt to forget. Just like Wines drinks to forget. You sleep less and less these nights. The others begin to worry. You don’t care, not even when your stitches become uneven and bolts of cloth show up on the market with bloodstains.

Besides Vake hunters, Seekers show up dead in ways of not their own doing. The Veils Wing of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel is full. You are postponing something you can’t. One will go north eventually. The Horizon will open.

But until then, you hang up your robes and let the Vake out to play.

Wines stops you before you can leave the Bazaar one night, blocking the exit. “Sit with me.” No royal we needed when it’s just you. You wonder if its lowering itself down to your level or if it can’t stand to put itself above you after everything. Here, your sins make you even - the two betrayers. The Chain sags with the weight of it.

You snarl, “I already gave you enough blood for your next batch of Absinthe.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

The wine it gives you is laced with honey. You know that after the first sip. You don't say anything, just let the alcohol numb your mind. When your vision is hazy, Wines glows softly in the low light. Wines doesn’t flicker, just refills your glass. You down it quickly, unable to even look at it. Wines burns cold, not warm. Halo an angry red scar rather than a gold ripple.

Wines’ lips taste like Candles’, you realize later that night. 

—

The candles don't give off enough heat anymore. The Neath feels colder than ever.

—

_ But even if you freeze inside I’ll love you, don’t you realize? _

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics are English translation of Veil by JubyPhonic.


End file.
